I'm aware that there is probably no worse way to judge an Olympics opening ceremony than by watching it without sound on the television down at the Laurel Tavern in between bites of cheeseburgers and sips of Newcastle brown ale. On the other hand, one's expectation of a large-scale, choreographed event held before 80,000 people in a three-tiered stadium is that its themes will be instantly recognizable from the cheap seats, including the ones at the Laurel, even with the sound off.
No way. This one was a true nightmare, a huge swirling cauldron of cloned Mary Poppinses, coal miners from the west Midlands trudging on well-worn paths down a mountainside, foppish men in top hats, nurses tending to a couple hundred kids in hospital beds, smokestacks surging from the stadium's darkest recesses, and various other visions surging from Danny Boyle's darkest recesses. And that was a good hour before an interminable Mr. Bean sequence gave way to an interminable Freddie Mercury sequence. What this had to do with athletics I will never know.
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I'm aware that there is probably no worse way to judge an Olympics opening ceremony than by watching it without sound on the television down at the Laurel Tavern in between bites of cheeseburgers and sips of Newcastle brown ale. On the other hand, one's expectation of a large-scale, choreographed event held before 80,000 people in a three-tiered stadium is that its themes will be instantly recognizable from the cheap seats, including the ones at the Laurel, even with the sound off.
No way. This one was a true nightmare, a huge swirling cauldron of cloned Mary Poppinses, coal miners from the west Midlands trudging on well-worn paths down a mountainside, foppish men in top hats, nurses tending to a couple hundred kids in hospital beds, smokestacks surging from the stadium's darkest recesses, and various other visions surging from Danny Boyle's darkest recesses. And that was a good hour before an interminable Mr. Bean sequence gave way to an interminable Freddie Mercury sequence. What this had to do with athletics I will never know.
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But as we know, the Olympics have as much to do with selling shoes, cars and Big Macs these days - and, in NBC's shrunken-talking-head world, American exceptionalism - as it does with what takes place in the athletic arena. And the winning bidders, we know, too, who are staging 17 days of events for a staggering $14 billion - do the math, people - have much that they want to sell: Themselves. We won the Games! We're still relevant!
And, oh, what the English have given the world. The Industrial Revolution. That was important; thanks for that. Too bad about the global warming. Seventy-eight years ago, the delightful Mary Poppins. Seventy-two years ago, the Miracle of Dunkirk!
Wait - that didn't make the cut?
I saw James Bond (1962 - well, 2005) and the British Invasion (1964). And yet, no Oliver - I mean, Oliver! (1968) - begging for another dollop of gruel. By the time the giant Voldemort action figure appeared (surprisingly not available for sale in an Olympics-themed version), I became wistful for a ten-second reprise of Beijing's Zhou-era performers representing the 3000 Disciples of Confucius. Or, at least, two giant likenesses of Catherine Howard and Anne Boleyn, minus their heads.
Was it the worst opening ceremony since the lighting of the flock of doves on the rim of Seoul's Olympic cauldron? In my estimation, yes. I've been sitting here reading the reviews in the world's press - respectful, enthusiastic, gaga - and I am not sure what people are thinking. I think I just watched ten Super Bowl halftimes on acid, and hours later it was still the same bad trip.
Of course, as I am not running for President, I can say what I think.
